


Don't Talk To Me Before Coffee

by DeadNation666



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Blood, Eridian Fuckery, Gen, Headcanon things, Possession, not horny, ok kind of horny, spooky bullshit just in time for the spooky season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:06:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26637802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadNation666/pseuds/DeadNation666
Summary: Jack has a weird morning.
Kudos: 4





	Don't Talk To Me Before Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> Thank YOU for being nice and encouraging me to post (you know who you are motherfucker!)
> 
> part of the "stupid drabbles from discord chat that i spruced up instead of actually writing my ongoing fics" series.

Meg, Handsome Jack's long-suffering secretary, has arrived in her boss's office to bring him a pot of coffee. Her interactions with him, while invariably strange, often uncomfortable, and nearly always challenging her idea of acceptable business ethics, are at the very least always interesting to tell people about, and damn it, the pay was fantastic. So here she was, toting a very large pot of very expensive coffee into his office, only to find Jack slumped, unmoving but clearly breathing, over his desk. Well, shit. Worried that Jack is having either some sort of drug-related issue (not unheard of, and she's CPR certified), or that she brought the coffee a bit too late, she approaches cautiously, knowing that if he wakes up grumpy, she's probably got a trip out the airlock coming up very soon.

As she approaches, she hears odd muttering coming from beyond the greying coif obscuring his face. The cadence is very un-Jack-like, monotonous and hesitant, but it's definitely his voice. She approaches even more gingerly, and as she reaches the chairs just in front of his desk, Jack snaps back to a seated position as if he was a stiffening corpse yanked back by puppet strings. His expression is lifeless, aside from his eyes, which stare intensely at a point infinitely beyond the exact point where Meg is standing. She dares not move as he stares past her, his unblinking eyes burning a figurative hole right through her concerned face. She can't tell if he's breathing anymore, but a single trickle of blood snakes slowly down his mask from one nostril, dripping unabated from his lips to his chin, spattering onto his vest. Meg cautiously sets the pot of coffee on his desk and slowly backs away, trying so hard not to look awkward in case he does remember any of this, that she trips right over one of the chairs.

Meg, being just 5 foot even and wearing flats, doesn't have far to go as she stumbles right on her ass, but in the time it takes her to hit the ground, say "oops!", and get back up, the room has gotten... weirdly dark.

She glances briefly up at the ceiling lights as she adjusts her blazer. They're on, just... really dim, and flickering like _all_ of them are just about to go out. She chances a glance back at Jack's desk and...

"What the--?"

Jack is levitating above his chair, limply articulated in the air like a marionette at rest, limbs constantly twitching as if an electric current was jolting through his body by whatever invisible wires connected his gasping chest to the ceiling above. The glassy lenses over his eyes have rolled back so far that the metallic margins connecting them to their circuitry glints a faint gold in the dim, flickering light, leaving the rest of them blank and white. His mouth haphazardly mutters indecipherable phrases in a language that sounds like a spoken-word record played backwards and, the more Meg ties to make out what Jack is saying, makes her ears ring painfully. She's frozen in fear, watching as more little streams of blood begin to seep from beneath Jack's mask, down his twitching neck, blooming dark into the fabric of his shirt. An ominous purple glow begins to shine from inside his mouth as his utterances become more and more frantic. He's certainly stumbling over words, speaking at a pace so quick that he begins to froth slightly at the corners of his mouth like a rabid animal. He struggles to maintain his breath, gasping between words, sometimes spurring himself into painful fits of coughing. His expression slowly changes from utterly blank to a grimace of pain and exhaustion as his body twitches harder, faster, and with greater urgency. He splutters, gasping deeply and slipping in a couple of intelligible words ("Fuck! Help me..." then more gibberish, then, "...Freakin' dying here, Meg!") before seizing hard with a pitiful, startling utterance of agony and a flash of violet light, then falling hard onto his desk with the painful-sounding _whack_ of face on glass, jostling the coffee pot.

The lights return to full brightness. Jack looks up at Meg. With his hair unkempt and his expression between exhaustion and the sort of embarrassment one might expect someone to have when their spouse finds them passed out in a nightclub bathroom, he looks more like he's just been roused from a bender than survived... whatever the hell just happened there.

"Sorry about that, Meg. Thanks for the uh, the coffee, there. Never speak of this to anyone."


End file.
